


The Dead Don't Need Lovers

by Stepha_Stargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Future Fic, R plus L equals J, Slow Burn, YOLO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8054335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stepha_Stargaryen/pseuds/Stepha_Stargaryen
Summary: Starts in the immediate aftermath of S6E10.





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece of fan fiction EVER, so all feedback and constructive criticism will be appreciated! I have the rest of the chapters outlined but not written, so your input will be especially helpful as I move forward.

“The King in the North!”

Their chants roared on as Jon reluctantly stood. He glanced in disbelief to Sansa, who smiled at him reassuringly. Attempting to absorb this surreal moment, he gazed around the room. The lords of great houses and powerful regions were supporting _him,_ raising their swords in the air with fervor. His daze came to a sudden halt as he glimpsed Lord Baelish, who stood still in tacit defiance. He was nearly hidden leaning against the far wall with arms crossed and a bitter look on his face. His cold eyes were locked to Jon’s left. _Sansa._ Jon quickly followed Littlefinger’s glowering stare and saw a sudden wave of concern crash over his half-sister’s face.

Jon raised a hand, slowly silencing the boisterous lords. He thanked them for their outburst of fealty, but insisted the credit was not due to him. “It was Lady Sansa who insisted we retake Winterfell. It was she who rallied bannermen to our cause and she who persuaded the Knights of the Vale to come to our aid. It is because of her, the trueborn heir of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Wardeness of the North, that the castle walls are draped in direwolves and not flayed men. We are standing here because of Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North!”

His proclamation produced a ruckus of cheers. Sansa took his outstretched hand and rose to her feet, shooting him a lightning flash of a panicked look. Yet, as she turned her head to face the crowded hall, he saw her practiced façade of a composed lady quickly resume. As she thanked the lords and encouraged them to feast and celebrate, Jon spied Lord Baelish once more and clenched his free fist. The lecher seemed to be considerably smugger than he was moments ago. What was unchanged, however, was his intentional gaze. He was still fixated on Sansa, eying her with what Jon could only assume was a hunger. He instinctively tightened his grip on Sansa’s hand. She swiftly looked to him. Her face would give nothing away to anyone else in the room, but Jon knows her. He saw the worry in her eyes. She reciprocated his squeeze and asked, “Might we go speak in private… Your Grace?” His heart panged and he flinched. _Your Grace?_ He did not know which he misliked more: the sudden burden of this unfit title, or the formal style of address rather than his name falling from her lips. “Please?” Her soft request pulled him back into the moment. He nodded and they slipped away from the rambunctious hall.

They walked silently, arm in arm, with his hand tight over hers. He did not let her go until they reached the Lord’s chambers. _Are they to be his now or hers?_ He closed the door behind them. She slowly turned to face him but her eyes did not rise to meet his.

“Jon,” she started, and he nearly sighed with relief at her calling him by his name. “I cannot be Queen in the North. I cannot be anything. It has to be you."

He frowned. “I am not a Stark.” She looked to him with pleading eyes and he softened. “Aye, I know, I am to you, but that does not change the truth. It is not right for them to name me King. It should be you.” She shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but he continued.

“It’s not just because you are the trueborn heir. Aye, it is your place and your right as a Stark, the last Stark,” he paused. They looked at each other with pained eyes. “But, that is only part of it. A small part of it. It was because of you the battle was won. It was because of you that there was even a battle at all. I… I did not want to do this when you first asked it of me. I wanted to flee. Flee from the North that was stolen by the craven brutes who murdered Robb, his wife and unborn babe, and your lady mother. Flee from the pain stabbed into my heart by my own brothers at the Wall. And flee from the army of the dead lying in wait beyond it. My only desire was to forget the life I knew and turn my back on it all.”

He felt her eyes on him, but now he could not bear to look up. “Since the day Father brought me home as a babe, I’ve been the North’s shame. I spent my life trying to live honorably and bravely as recompense, leaving Winterfell and joining the Night’s Watch, even becoming Lord Commander, but it was all futile. Lady Stark couldn’t feel anything for me save shame and loathing. She cursed me as I left, maddened that it was Bran abed and like to die instead of me. My own men couldn’t understand when I acted to keep the remaining Free Folk from becoming wights. They could only understand their hatred for wildlings and shame that they leader would allow their enemies into the North. They killed me for it. And since I was wrenched back into this life all I’ve felt is the shame. I shouldn’t be here. I’ve done nothing but break our family, break my vows, break the brotherhood of the Watch. Our brother and nearly all our bannermen fell due to my recklessness and stubbornness. I should have listened to you and heeded your advice.” He shuddered. “All I feel is shame.”

Jon finally willed himself to look upon Sansa’s face. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were filled with tears. Her pink lips parted as if she wanted to interject, but he resumed his lamentations before she had the opportunity.

“I do not want this crown. I do not deserve it. But you do, Sansa. You never stopped fighting. You are what kept me fighting during the battle when I nearly let myself give up. After all you endured…”

“Inside these very walls,” she breathed, almost only a murmur to herself. She seemed to slip away then, no doubt falling into the brutal memories of her time here with Ramsay. Anger, pain, and guilt shot through him as he felt a deep and sudden ache in his chest.

He cupped his hands around her cheeks and stared into her Tully blue eyes with purpose. “Sansa,” he whispered, worried she could hear his heart breaking in his voice. He leaned in, touching his forehead to hers. “You are so strong. You give me strength. You inspire me,” he said softly. He pulled his head back to look into the oceans of her eyes once more, his hands still on her cheeks. He spoke more surely. “You inspire the North. You’re the Lady of Winterfell and the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”

“You inspire them,” she countered, averting her gaze. “It is your strength and honor they admire. It’s why they crowned you King.”

He shook his head. “Everything they admire in me is only there because of you. After I died, I did not plan to be strong or admirable again until you implored me to be. When we were sitting by the fire in my chambers at Castle Black that first night and you asked me where we would go, all I wanted was for us run away across the Narrow Sea. My fantastical desires to be a song’s hero died with me in the snow. The Red Woman may have brought me back to life, but it was you who truly revived me, Sansa. You gave me something to fight for.”

She suddenly brought a delicate hand over one of his still cupping her cheek. “I almost wish we did flee. We could have made a new life. I could feel…” She almost looked wistful before she stopped herself.

“What?” Jon asked, searching her face. “Tell me.”

She sighed. “I could feel free.”

“Sansa,” he breathed, a heavy whisper. All at once, he felt the shame again. Was it he who was making her feel unfree? He dropped his hands from her face, worried he had ignorantly been inflicting yet another uninvited touch upon her. “You are free. I will not allow anyone make you feel differently. I’ll protect you… and respect you. Always. I promise.”

He felt her soft hands rush to grab his own. “I know,” she acknowledged, her voice filled with melancholy. “But you can’t protect me. It’s too late.”

He swore he could feel his heart breaking. She looked up at him, her eyes glistening in the flickering candlelight. “But _I_ can still protect _you._ ”

Nonplussed, his brow furled at her words. “Sansa, I do not need you to protect me. I have a garrison of—”

“Yes, you do. I know what Petyr is capable of. I know what plans he is hatching. He sees you as a threat to what he wants and he will get rid of you as soon as he is able in order to get it.”

 _Petyr._ That ugly name rolling with such familiarity off Sansa’s perfect lips made his blood turn into a burning river of rage. “And what is it he so wants?” He dreaded the answer.

Sansa shifted where she stood, visibly uncomfortable. “Everything. Power over everything and everyone. He wants the North. He wants the Iron Throne. He wants… me.”

Jon was shaking with rage. “He can fight the Lannisters for the bloody Iron Throne all he wants,” Jon spat. “But the North belongs to you. And you belong to no one.”

Sansa gave him a sad smile. “No. I…” She sighed. “The aid of the Knights of the Vale came at a price.”

“Sansa,” he said, his voice laden with anger and despair, “No.”

“I am to marry my cousin Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale. But he is young and sickly and I am sure Littlefinger will see to his quick and easily explainable demise soon after I say hollow vows for the third time. Then Lord Baelish will marry yet another poor widowed Lady of the Vale and it will all work out for him just as conveniently as it did the last time.” Jon could hear the disdain in her voice. “If I am made Queen in the North, then as my lord husband he will have all my rights and claims _jure uxoris._ He will be King in the North. It’s not his to take, Jon.”

“You’re not his to take!” Jon growled, turning to slam a fist down on the heavy wooden desk behind them, shocking himself with his own fury. He had not scared her, at least he hoped he had not, but she seemed to be retreating from him all the same. She went to the chairs before the fire and sat down.

After a few moments of contemplation and heavy breathing, he walked and stood before her. “What’s to keep him from marrying you and having the King in the North killed soon after? The power would fall to him all the same.”

Sansa shook her head. “This is why you’ll… you will need to marry and make heirs as soon as possible.”

“No!” He was shouting once more. She looked at him with wide eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose pensively and exhaled. He knelt on the floor before her. “Sansa, no. We cannot do this to ourselves. We cannot let that spiteful vulture ruin our lives. The only lives we get! There is nothing after this life, Sansa. Nothing.” He gazed up at her sweet face and auburn locks, basked in the glow of the firelight. He grabbed her hand and kissed her palm. “Whatever price you think you must pay, you don’t. _You won’t,_ ” he insisted, as gently as he could. “I will do everything in my power and put a stop to it. Winterfell is your home and I will not let him rob you of your freedom. I will not let him rob you of your happiness.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and his nose to her hair. _Or me of mine._


	2. Sansa

It had been snowing in the North for so many moons that Sansa lost count, but since the white raven came from the Citadel she could swear the air had become even colder. The wind cut through her cloak, chilled her bones, and bit at her cheeks. _Still,_ she thought, _I am a Stark of Winterfell. I was built for the cold. I am steel. I am ice._

As she walked to the Godswood, she relished her time alone. Jon had not left her side since she confessed Littlefinger’s intentions to him. Not that she minded. This was just a welcome respite; time to sort her thoughts so they didn’t all come crashing at her at once as she lay in bed at night. She didn’t intend to be away from him for long. Being around Jon made her feel like herself again. He slowly chipped away at her carefully guarded exterior, an armor she’d been accumulating since she was Joffrey’s hostage plaything in King’s Landing, Lord Baelish’s baseborn daughter in the Eyrie, and Ramsay Bolton’s prisoner of a wife. She shuddered at the memories. At least Joffrey and Ramsay were dead. But Littlefinger remained. Still drawing breath and dangerously close.

“My love.”

The slippery voice made her stomach churn and the hair on the back of her neck raise. She turned. No, it wasn’t just another memory haunting her. Littlefinger’s svelte frame appeared before her, a dark look in his eyes that was all too familiar.

“Lord Baelish.”

Her curt salutation must have angered him. She saw a flash of agitation on his face before it returned once more to the cool mask of a manipulator. “I thought you didn’t pray anymore, my lady.”

“I don’t.”

“Ah, I see. Seeking solace from your newfound shadow, then?” She looked at him and her eyes narrowed. “I can’t help but notice your half-brother rarely gives you much personal space these days.”

Sansa tensed. “Jon is the King in the North. I am Queen. We are partners and have been busy with our duties rebuilding Winterfell and tending to our people amidst the arrival of a long and harsh Winter.”

Littlefinger gave her a crooked smile. “Indeed. Perhaps if you divided your duties, you could accomplish more at a faster pace. Although, I can understand why you feel that may be unwise.”

She knew he wanted her to take the bait. She gazed off into the wood in disinterest. “Unwise?”

“Your baseborn brother doesn’t understand the complexities of ruling nor does he have your foresight or skill. It’s no wonder he hangs on you like a motherless child lost in the world.”

Sansa clenched her fists. “Jon is a strong leader and perfectly capable—“

He let out a sharp laugh. “Forgive me, Sweetling. I meant no offense. I only wanted to make you aware of your court’s conjectures.”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to laugh. “I very much doubt our people are saying such things about the King they crowned on their own volition only a fortnight ago.”

“Of course, you are quite right. Not all of the people. Some have other theories.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. More bait. “Regarding?”

His unnerving smile grew and his serpentine eyes glittered. “Why Snow clings to you so. Many think it is insecurity and inexperience, true, but a good deal many others…” His smirk was wide.

She crossed her arms. “State what you wish to state, Lord Baelish.”

“Others think his attachment to you may be not entirely… brotherly. Insisting to accompany you to and from every meeting and meal, never letting you retire without him, keeping you physically near and grabbing your hand whenever he can. Not to mention the way he gazes at you when you aren’t looking. Truthfully, his behavior is so blatant I’m surprised you haven’t heard the whispers... or thought it yourself.”

She was fuming. “As I said, Lord Baelish, Jon and I are partners. And you can hardly fault him for wanting to see to my comfort and safety after you sold me to monsters who took both from me on these very grounds.”

His smirk did not falter. “I know it’s hard to see since you don’t share his… unnatural predilections, but the King would do well with some distance between you two. If he truly is as capable as you say, let his people see that. Return with me to the Eyrie and let him thrive here. You can marry Lord Arryn as soon as we reach the Vale. Mayhaps your brother will even find a proper wife to cleave to in your absence so he can let go of his… inappropriate and unrequited longing for you.”

Sansa was incredulous. _It’s not Jon who has the inappropriate and unrequited longing for me, Petyr._

He glibly droned on. “He needs to regain the full respect and support of his people if he is to rule.” He stepped close enough to her that she could smell his sharp peppermint breath. “But you know this. You’re so clever, my love. You know what the people want. What your half-brother wants. What I want.” He moved to completely close the space between them and her breath hitched. “Let me give you what you want. You’ll be Lady of Winterfell and the Eyrie, Wardenness of the North and the East, and with Cersei’s madness growing stronger by the day soon you’ll be by my side ruling all seven kingdoms. Let me give that to you. Let me give everything to you.”

Firm hands snaked around her hips and began pulling her body to his. She felt his fingers dig into her skin despite layers of fabric. Distressing memories shot through her mind and dread immobilized her.

A sharp growl caused him to abruptly release her. _Ghost._ Sansa prayed that meant Jon was near. Gods she’d been neglecting seemed to hear her today.

“Lord Baelish!” His voice was low but boomed all the same.

“Your Grace,” Littlefinger said through gritted teeth without taking his eyes off the direwolf. “Lady Sansa and I were just discussing—”

Jon saw Sansa’s panicked face and glowered at him. “ _Queen_ Sansa and I have matters to discuss as well and unfortunately they cannot wait. Leave us.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He bowed and eyed Sansa intensely before he began his retreat back to the castle. Jon waited until he was out of sight before turning to her.

“Sansa,” Jon breathed, concern plastered across his handsome face. “What happened? You’re trembling.”

She opened her mouth to speak but her throat only tightened as tears filled her eyes. She fell into him, burying her face in his chest and began to sob.

Jon held her tightly as he whispered soothing words and stroked her hair. “Sansa, I’m so sorry. Sansa, I’m here. I’m here.”

Eventually she choked down the last of her cries and began to still. “Oh, Jon,” she keened.

“What happened?” She could feel his heart racing even through all his thick winter fabrics.

“I thought I could handle him. I could have. If he… if he didn’t…”

“What did he do?” Now Jon was the one trembling. She felt his hands flex compulsorily.

Sansa drew back and shook her head. “Nothing as awful as you’re imagining. It’s just… he… the way he was speaking to me and touching me was just how Ramsay would often be with me. He would speak in that same saccharine yet predatory voice as his hands gripped me harder and harder before he… before he hurt me in whatever creative methods inspiration had struck him that night.”

Jon pulled her close. “I’ll have his head.”

She laughed despite herself. “I doubt he even realizes what he did. He probably thinks he made me feel protected and grateful and full of desire, when I feel wholly contrary.”

She felt Jon tense. “Full of desire?”

“He seems to think I lust for power just as he does. And that I will inevitably lust for him as well.” She let out another bitter laugh. “Whenever he’s near me all I want to do is scream or be sick. I could never feel anything for him again beyond contempt.”

Jon sighed. “Aye. I’ve nothing beyond contempt for him as well.”

Sansa smiled as she nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck. Jon always smelled like home. Like the North. Like her father. _He is every bit a Stark._ But he’s not made of ice. He never feels like winter. He is always warm to the touch, and the way his strong arms and thick cloak wrapped around her now made her feel cozier than she had since she was a young girl sleeping in her parents’ great weirwood bed after a bad dream. “Jon,” she sighed, after too few blissful minutes of comfort, her lips grazing his throat.

He stiffened. “We should be getting back,” he whispered gruffly.

She pulled away to look upon his face. “Littlefinger seems to have altered his strategy.” She watched his brow crease.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s no longer trying to pit me against you. He’s trying to make me pity you and abscond with him back to the Vale. I think he means to have you killed while we’re still on the journey. As soon as we reach the Vale I’ll be married to Robin, and he wouldn’t want you alive after that.”

“He told you this?”

“No, of course not. But he seems too self-assured with leaving you as the only acting regent of the North while I’m in the Eyrie becoming its lady and the Wardenness of the East. He’s always thinking multiple moves ahead.”

Jon began to brood until Sansa caught his eye and his expression softened. “How does he mean to make you pity me?” he asked, swallowing.

Sansa blushed. “It’s no matter. Another attempt to fill my head with whatever poison he can conjure up.” She could tell her words didn’t do much to assuage his insecurity. He started to turn to lead them back to the castle but she stayed put. “Jon, please don’t doubt my faith in you. Littlefinger is desperate to tear us apart but he will only succeed if we let him. We need to trust each other.”

His eyes crinkled as his pouty mouth curled into a grin. “Aye, we do. I trust you, Sansa.” He kissed the crown of her hair and wiped the dried tears and snowflakes from her cheeks. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For chasing Baelish away. For always being so gallant. For making me feel so safe.”

He dropped his hands and looked down. “That’s all I want to do, Sansa. That’s… that’s all I want.”

His soft voice and demeanor made her smile. She hugged him again and felt his arms tentatively wrap around her. “I know.” She shivered against him. “Now, let’s get inside before we freeze into statues.”

She heard the sheepish smile in his voice behind her as she led him by the hand back toward their home. “As you wish.”


	3. Jon

Jon watched Sansa bite her lip as she studied the letter, flashes of ivory grating over summer rose. If she kept it up any longer her lip would undoubtedly swell. She set the parchment on the desk and played with her hands. “Do you think it’s really him?” She looked up at him and he had the awkward realization that he had still been staring at her mouth. Hastily lifting his gaze, he saw her deep cerulean eyes were wide.

“Sam told me Bran was with the Reeds and Hodor when he was traveling north of the Wall, so it makes sense for him to be with Lady Meera.” He frowned. “I wonder how long they’ve been without Hodor and Jojen.”

“Lord Howland’s children? Hopefully not long. I can’t imagine the girl has been hauling Bran around on her own. Unless she is built like Lady Brienne.” A smile briefly played on her lips before her face fell. Jon knew Sansa was fretting over the lady knight and her squire’s safety. They’d heard the Lannisters had retaken Riverrun but had received no word from Brienne or Pod.

Jon shuddered, imagining what became of the two missing from Bran’s party. Hodor was such a sweet and simple lad, but built like a half-giant. _Gods help us if he’s become a wight._

“Edd says they can’t spare the men to escort him to us, so I’ll need to gather some men to accompany me to retrieve him.”

“Accompany you?” She looked stricken.

“Sansa, I have to go. He’s our brother. I can’t send strangers to fetch him.”

She looked down at her hands as she folded them in her lap. “I know. I just… with _him_ still here…”

He reached over and put his hands on hers. She clutched to him. “I know. I’ll leave Ghost with you. It shouldn’t take any convincing since he’s completely forsaken me to sleep with you each night.”

Sansa flashed a warm smile. “He’s helped, you know. With… my sleeping.”

“Aye. I’m glad. He’s very protective of you. He loves you. He’ll guard you well while I’m gone.”

“He takes after his master.”

Jon grinned and squeezed his hands in hers. “That he does, my lady. That he does.”

Jon, Tormund, and small garrison of Mormont and Glover men rode for Castle Black at first light.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he told her, squeezing her to his chest. Her hair smelled of lemon and lavender. He inhaled deeply. He wished he could take the scent with him; he knew he would not encounter a fragrance nearly as pleasant on the Kingsroad let alone the Wall.

He knelt down to Ghost. “Protect her. You hear me? Guard her with your life. She’s our Queen.” He scratched the direwolf’s head and nodded at Sansa. Her eyes were red rimmed and her lips lush and bright pink. Fiery wisps escaping her braid blew in the wind. A smile danced on his lips. She would probably claim she looked a mess since she had just arisen from bed. Truthfully, though, she looked exquisite.

The ride was a hard one. The weather, while not stormy, was not kind. One of the horses died in the night and a man had taken ill, so another took him back to Winterfell before they’d been gone a sennight.

When they finally approached Castle Black, Jon felt nothing but dread. Even knowing his brother was beyond the gates, he’d hoped to never return here. Alas, he did often, albeit only in his nightmare. Always the same nightmare. Always the same angry faces. Always the cold.

The gates opened and their weather-beaten party entered. Lord Commander Tollett was waiting for them. Jon dismounted and swiftly embraced his friend. “I see it’s still standing, so you’ve not buggered the job too badly,” Jon laughed.

Edd rolled his eyes and led Jon toward the stairs. “Let’s get you to your brother.”

As the two men walked the ramparts, Jon could hear Tormund bellowing below about needing some “famed piss-poor crow ale” and shook his head.

“He’s in there,” Edd gestured, “with the lady.” Jon nodded. The impropriety of Bran and Meera sharing a room did not bother Jon in the slightest. Lady Reed is the only woman closer than Mole’s Town, so her rooming alone wouldn’t be the most prudent option. Had Sansa's lady knight not stayed with her at the Wall, Jon would have insisted she sleep in his chambers while he slept on the floor. Would she have let him? Or would she have insisted they share a bed for the sake of both their warmth and comfort? _Ghost shares her bed now, protecting, warming, and comforting her._ Jon closed his eyes, wishing his wolf dreams were more frequent than his dreams of his betrayal.

Edd knocked sharply on the heavy door. “Lord Stark,” he called.

 _Lord Stark._ How had it not occurred to Jon before now? Bran is the rightful heir to Winterfell and the North. When they return home, everything must change. _Will there even be a place for me there? What about Sansa? If I am no longer King in the North, how will I protect her?_

Jon’s mind was racing as a young woman opened the door. Her hair was a tousle of brown curls not quite as dark as his own. “Lady Reed,” Jon stammered, still recovering from his thoughts.

“Jon?” asked a voice much too deep to be his younger brother’s. Edd nodded at them and took his leave. Meera opened the door wider and Jon looked upon the young man laying atop the bed. His face was longer and leaner and more Stark-like than when Jon had last seen him, but there was no mistaking who he was.

“Bran,” Jon breathed. He rushed to his brother’s bedside and embraced him. “Are you well?!”

“I’m fine, Jon,” Bran laughed. “I swear it. I’d much rather know how you are.”

Jon swallowed. “Do you know what happened? Why my watch ended?”

Bran nodded. “I’m sorry, Jon. I know you’re still haunted by the memories and pain. But it needed to happen. Your place is not here, Jon. You need to be at Winterfell readying the North for the wars to come.”

Jon’s brow was in its usual furl. “What about your place? You are the true Lord of Winterfell—“

Bran raised a hand to stop him. “Jon, I cannot be Lord of Winterfell. Your and Sansa’s roles needn’t change. Meera wrote to her father as soon as we arrived here, so he should be arriving at Winterfell to meet us. Once we get there and settle our affairs, we will be riding back with him to Greywater Watch.”

“Your affairs?”

“I’ll make any declarations necessary stating that I unequivocally endorse you and Sansa as Lord and Lady of Winterfell and King and Queen of the North. I don’t want to jeopardize your claim or that of your children.”

“My children?” Jon swallowed. “Or Sansa’s?”

Bran paused. “Jon, there is something I need to tell you. It’s about Father. And your mother.”


	4. Sansa

When two of the men from Jon’s party returned to Winterfell after only a fortnight, Sansa’s heart fluttered in hope as she ran to see if Jon had returned to her too. She was saddened but relieved he had no cause to abort his journey, such as illness or injury. She worried over him while he was away. _I miss him,_ she thought to herself, her heart pounding at the realization. She shook her head. _Of course I miss him. He is my brother; He is the only person I can fully trust. The only person I know truly cares for me. I love him and miss him as a sister does a brother._ She frowned. _Did her heart ever flutter like this for Robb, Bran, or Rickon? Father, even?_

As she sat at the base of the weirwood tree where Eddard Stark would clean his greatsword and contemplate the sentences he passed and carried out, she scratched Ghost behind the ears. His head was covering her lap, thicker than both of her thighs. He was heavy, but warmed her in the cold better than any fur or fire.

“You are so fearsome, Ghost,” she marveled, smiling as she traced a delicate finger down his impressive snout. _But you’re as gentle to me as Jon is,_ she mused. _And Jon is quite fearsome as well._

Suddenly the direwolf’s massive head jerked from her as he lunged up into a defensive stance, startling a gasp out of Sansa.

She heard a smug chuckle. _Must he always lurk?_

“Even the seemingly tamest beasts can be unpredictable. Once wild, always wild. No amount of domestication can change what a beast truly is. With the proper provocation, even the best trained beast will snap back to his true feral nature; reveal himself to be as base as his birth.”

Ire burned through her. _He has become too brazen._

“I cannot help but feel you are talking about more than just Ghost,” she said, trying to suppress her disdain.

Petyr smirked. “My Sansa. You’re nothing if not clever.”

She stood. _I am not yours,_ she thought to herself. Patting Ghost’s head, she moved between Littlefinger and the direwolf, who seemed ready to tear him from limb to limb. “Ghost, stay.”

“Although, I have noticed you’ve been rather… melancholy, as of late.” His smirk grew and he stroked his pointed beard as he added, “I’d say, for the last fortnight or so.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been busy with my duties, especially with Jon away.”

“Ah, yes, I thought it might have to do with the bastard’s absence.”

Sansa managed to shut her eyes before she rolled them. _Stay composed. Let him think you’re still under his thumb._ “Oh?”

“Indubitably,” he said, unrelenting in his audacity. “He treats you like a lover would. Doting on you, listening to you, comforting you. I imagine it’s very confusing with him and lonely without him.”

Sansa stayed silent, staring at his face with narrowed eyes. She felt her nails dig into her palms.

“What you need is a man, not a half-brother, to love you and fill the void you feel. The bastard is familiar, I know, but he’s not your only option. He’s just the only option you know you can’t act on since he is your blood. But you should act, Sansa. You shouldn’t be afraid to love. Just not him. Rather, someone who knows you, loves you, and is more… befit to you.”

He moved to her then, placing his hands around her arms just below her shoulders, causing every muscle in her body to tense.

“And that someone is supposed to be you, I take it?” She couldn’t hide the scorn in her voice.

“You know the answer to that. I am the one who liberated you from the Lannisters, brought you to your family, and acted only to protect you.”

“Protect me?!” she growled. “Is that what you call selling me to my rapist and tormentor?”

He tightened his fingers against her. “You know I regret nothing more—”

“You are the reason I was subjected to him! I trusted your plans! I trusted you and he ruined me,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “Ruined me so no man would want me but you!”

She tried to fight the tears but her eyes betrayed her. She shook with fury as heavy droplets streamed down her face.

“You’re right,” he admitted, surprising her. “No other high lord may want you. But that was not my intention. I thought you could charm the Bolton bastard and retake Winterfell using the political skills I taught you. But still, I raised an army for you. A winning army. And we retook it anyway. Yet, now you charm this Snow who would have blindly driven you right back into your vicious husband’s clutches. Everything I’ve done has been for you, Sansa. And you want to throw that away for some dense half-Stark? Why?!” He squeezed tighter. “Is his yearning not so unrequited? Are you so damaged that you’ve succumbed to his depravity? Tell me, sweet Sansa. _Does your cunt get wet for your half-brother?"_

She moved to slap him but he held down her arms in his vice grip and pushed her back forcefully against a tree, stunning her.

“You are as ungrateful as your mother,” he hissed. “I fought for her, nearly died for her, and still bear the scars. But still she rushed into the arms of that impulsive oaf. She said it was all for duty but she lusted for your foolish uncle. When Brandon died I thought she’d come to her senses but again, she forsook my love for the excuse of duty once more. Then her dutiful dullard lord husband brought home that sniveling Southron bastard and dishonored her by fostering him here. I wrote to her, forgiving her, offering to comfort her in the way she deserved, but she refused me once more. She decided to overlook your ungrateful father’s trespasses and willed herself to love him in spite. Even finally widowed, she rejected me, after all I risked for her in King’s Landing.”

His face loomed in front of hers and his voice lowered. “But you are not your mother, are you, Sweetling? You needn’t waste yourself on a doltish half-Stark. You may act as haughty as she, but you know deep down I am the only one who will care for you. I am your best choice. No, no great lords will want you for a wife. Even your beloved bastard will need to marry and once he does he shan’t be wasting his attentions on you as he has been. He will have a fair highborn maiden to warm his bed and you will no longer be the object of his desire. There will be no place for you.”

Sansa tried to speak but couldn’t. She tried to scream. She tried to fight. She was frozen, completely stuck. Images flashed in her mind: Ramsay, holding her against a wall as he thrust himself roughly inside her; Littlefinger, forcing kisses upon her in the Eyrie; Joffrey, cackling as Meryn Trant ripped her gown from her breasts and punched her in the stomach. Her brain was reeling through all of the men that hurt her. She has lived in fear and been subjected to cruelty since the day her father died. She has not known safety for years. Well, she hadn’t. Not until Jon wrapped his arms around her beyond the gates of Castle Black. It was tender, it was loving, it was secure.

 _“You are so strong,”_ she recalled his heartfelt confession to her the night he was crowned. _“You give me strength.”_

“All my life, Cat denied me. But not now. You won’t deny me, Sansa,” he cooed with a false tenderness as his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Not when duty and your only chance at a loving marriage coincide.”

 _You are strong. You are a Stark. You are Queen in the North._ Sansa had vowed to herself after escaping Ramsay never again to be at any man’s mercy. She needn’t cower to any man’s threats nor acquiesce to any man’s demands. She will never again be controlled.

She willed herself to act.

“You’re right,” she purred, running her palms up to his chest. “I won’t deny you, Petyr.” She felt his grip on her arms loosen and watched as his jaw went slack.

“Sansa,” he groaned. “My Sansa—”

“You see, I’m afraid won’t get the chance.” He looked at her in confusion as she shoved him away from her with all her might. “Ghost!”

She watched as a flash of white swiftly collided with grey and green, before everything was rapidly sodden red.

_I am fearsome, too._


	5. Jon

Jon’s head was still spinning when they finally glimpsed Winterfell in the distance. The winter town was buried in snow with nary a sign a life, and the trek through it to the castle walls seemed longer than the leagues they had traveled down the Kingsroad.

Bran was ahorse with him, holding fast to his back with arms around his chest. He was no longer a small boy, but it hauling him in a cart would have slowed the journey and left them vulnerable to the impending blizzard.

They had watched the sun set as they approached the gates, but as they entered Jon swore he saw it rise again as he glanced up at the ramparts. The dusky sky lit a golden-red glow around a tall slender figure watching them enter the courtyard. _Sansa._

They stared at each other until Jon had to halt his horse for men to help Bran down and into a wheeled chair she must have had prepared for him. “Sansa!” he heard Bran happily exclaim.

“Oh, Bran!” she cried, clutching her skirts and running towards them. She dropped to her knees and hugged him to her. “My sweet brother,” she said, her blue eyes shining as she stroked his face. “You’re nearly a man grown! Let’s get you inside. I’m sure you are all in need of warmth and a proper meal… and baths,” she added with mirth.

“Ah, yes, all of those amenities would be most welcome.”

Sansa turned toward the jovial voice. “You must be Lady Reed.” Jon saw a strange look come over her face and she pulled the girl to her in an uncharacteristic embrace. “Thank you for keeping my brother safe. Thank you.”

Meera gracefully smiled at her as she released. “Of course, Queen Sansa. Please, call me Meera. I’ll help get Bran inside.”

Sansa nodded. They watched Meera walk beside Bran as one of the men helped push him into the castle. The pair seemed to have a trusting ease with each other and Jon was glad for it. Bran deserved companionship, and with a Northern noblewoman both lovely and strong he certainly wasn’t settling.

The others had already disappeared, taking the horses to the stables and seeking out their own reprieve from the journey.

Suddenly Sansa’s body was warm against his, her face buried in his neck with her arms about his waist. “Jon.” She quivered and sighed, repeating his name, “Oh, Jon.”

An intense clash of emotions and myriad fleeting thoughts were barreling through him all at once. He had told himself he was going to keep his distance from her until he could sort himself out. He spent the last fortnight agonizing over what to think, what to do, and how to tell her. But with her here, flush against him, smelling of lavender and lemon he forgot all of his reasons to keep her at arm’s length.

“Sansa,” he exhaled, snaking his arms around her, running a hand through her hair. He pulled her even closer so he could press his lips to her temple and breathe her in.

“I’m so relieved you’ve returned to me. I never doubted you would, but I just… I’m so relieved you’re here.” He closed his eyes, reveling in her warmth. After precious little time had passed, she pulled away from him and took his hands. “Let’s get inside. We have much to discuss.”

As she led him toward the castle, he shook his head at how much of an understatement that truly was.

 

“I received a raven from Greywater Watch after Jon departed for Castle Black, stating that your father planned to come to Winterfell shortly after you arrived. Will you not be staying with us long, Lady Meera?” Sansa, once again her effortlessly poised self, asked as she delicately sipped her wine.

“No, my lady, I imagine once my father confirms certain information with King Jon—”

Sansa arched an eyebrow toward him and he all at once became entranced with the food on his plate.

“—and once Bran has handled his affairs, we’ll be headed there promptly.”

Sansa’s eyes snapped back to the pair across the table. “What? Once Bran has… no, Bran! You are Lord of Winterfell! You cannot simply abscond, especially now that you’ve just returned!”

Bran chuckled, much to Sansa’s blatant chagrin. “No, Sansa, you are Lady of Winterfell. Jon is King and you are Queen. I cannot be Lord. My place is not here. I have greater duties elsewhere.”

Sansa was dubious. “What duties could possibly be greater than your duty to our ancestral seat?!”

“Holding our seat is not our only ancestral duty, Sansa. There are many responsibilities that come with our blood.” Bran was less smug now, no doubt debating the best way to explain his circumstances to her. “Our blood has… gifts. When each Stark child was paired with a direwolf, it became easily apparent we each had a special connection with them. Yours didn’t get much of a chance to grow, Sansa, but mine did. Jon’s connection with Ghost grows still. They understood us. We sometimes shared a mind. I quickly learned to slip into Summer. With Jojen’s guidance, I discovered I could do the same to Hodor, and now I have the skill to warg into a host of my choosing.”

“Warg?” Sansa asked with incredulity.

“Yes, like Old Nan’s stories. You can put yourself into the mind of a living thing, see what they see, and act through them.”

Sansa paused. “Jon, is this true? Can you warg into Ghost?”

Jon cleared his throat. “No, I mean, not like that. I always thought they were just incredibly vivid dreams. But at night, while I sleep, I often slip into Ghost. It’s usually when he’s out hunting. I see through his eyes, smell every scent, taste every kill, and feel every muscle in his body and every jolt of excitement or fear. I’m usually just along for the ride, though. I haven’t really tried taking control.”

Sansa listened to him, her eyes wide—until they narrowed. “What about nights he isn’t out hunting?”

Jon felt his face burn red.

“My point is,” continued Bran, “there is magic in Stark blood. And because of Jojen’s greensight, he brought me where I needed to go to learn about mine.”

“North of the Wall? Where did you go?”

“To the Three-Eyed Raven. He taught me of our connection to the Old Gods. I can go back to the past and see things that happened before. I saw our fathers at the Tower of Joy trying to rescue Aunt Lyanna. I saw Jon’s birth. But I can see other points in time as well. I have seen glimpses of the future, I think. I can see events happening at the same time leagues away.”

Sansa’s brow was furled. Jon could tell she was speeding through her thoughts, trying to process all of this. “Even so, I don’t understand why you must go to Greywater Watch.”

Bran frowned. “Lord Howland has greensight as well. He and Father were the only ones who knew each other’s secrets. He can help me hone my abilities now that the Three-Eyed Raven is dead. I tried to learn on my own and inadvertently led the Night King to us. He destroyed him. But then, just as Jojen saw years ago, I became Three-Eyed Raven. The wights killed the Children of the Forest, Summer, and Hodor as they held them off so we could escape. They would have caught us if not for Uncle Benjen.”

“Uncle Benjen?!” Sansa looked to be in shock. Jon promptly grabbed her hand under the table, rubbing circles over her skin with his thumb. “Why did he not return with you? Is he back at the Wall?”

“No, not quite,” Bran grimaced. “He was attacked by wights on the ranging mission when he first went missing. The Children found him and stopped the magic from fully taking hold. He isn’t dead, but he isn’t exactly alive either. The magic in the Wall keeps him the walking dead out.”

Sansa went pale and looked like she might faint. Jon stood abruptly. “This is enough for now, I think. It’s a lot to take in. Sansa, let me escort you back to your chambers.”

She nodded, shaking herself out of a daze. She stood, but gulped down the rest of her wine before leaving the table.

 

She leaned on him heavily as they walked in silence down the corridor. When they reached her door, Jon stopped her. “Are you going to be alright?” He didn’t want her anguishing over Bran’s cavalier outpouring of information as he had. Well, still was.

He cupped her face, the rosy color already returning to her cheeks. He tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear.

“Of course. It’s just—” She bit her lip. “—a great deal to absorb.”

Jon nodded. “My mind has been reeling ever since Bran told me everything at Castle Black.”

Sansa’s brow furled. “Jon, he… he said he saw your birth? Did he see your mother?”

Jon’s hands dropped and he felt a lump in his throat. “Aye, he did.”

“Does he know who she was?”

Jon felt his head nodding once more.

“Is she alive? Can we find her?”

Jon’s eyes stung. “No,” he rasped. “No, she died. She died birthing me.”

“Oh, Jon.” He felt her delicate hands cup his face, wiping away the moisture seeping from the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Jon knew he would break if he spoke on it any more. He shook his head.

“It’s alright. I… It’s just too much right now. It’s late and we all need rest. We’ll discuss more on the morrow.”

He turned from her abruptly, wiping his face and trudging towards his chambers.

“Jon,” she called, her voice cracking. _Gods. Hold it together, Jon._

He about-faced slowly. She was hugging herself and looked amiss. _I’m being selfish._

“I’m sorry,” he rubbed at his brow. “I just—”

“No, no, I understand. It’s only… Ghost isn’t here and… do you… would you…”

He strode to her without hesitation and pulled her close. “Of course,” he whispered.

He followed her into her room and shut the door. He tended to the fire while she changed into her nightdress and crawled into bed. “Jon,” she yawned, reaching sleepily for him.

He pulled off his doublet and kicked his boots to the side and laid atop the furs next to her.

She grumbled. “Jon, please. You’re still too far away. Come under the covers.”

Jon cleared his throat. “It would be improper.”

She scoffed. “Nothing is improper. You are my brother. Please, Jon, you know it’s not as comforting when I can’t feel you here.”

Jon was overcome with guilt. _It is improper because I’m not your brother._ Would this even be happening if she knew? _Will she feel betrayed when I tell her the truth, when she realizes what I knew in this moment?_

“Jon,” she gently pleaded.

He relented, sliding under the furs. _I ought to savor one last night as her brother._ She nestled close to him as he wrapped his arm around her. _I’ll never again be able to hold her like this._

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I love you, Jon.”

His chest tightened. “I love you too, Sansa.” He murmured, “More than anything.”

She hummed and nuzzled her face against his chest, running her fingers through the hair peeking out from the top of his tunic. His heart raced as he stared at the bed’s canopy. Eventually her stirring stopped and her breathing became deep and even. Jon wondered if he would sleep at all tonight, wracked with all his turmoil. But as he inhaled her scent with every breath and felt her heart beat from her breast against his side, he was eventually lulled into slumber. He had no need for wolf dreams tonight.


	6. Sansa

Blinking her eyes open, Sansa realized that the sun was already rising and the warm glow of the dawn was brightening the room. She began to stretch with a muffled groan when strong arms suddenly enveloped her. _Jon._

He never stayed this late. Usually she’d hazily remember a farewell before daybreak, or murmurs of why they couldn’t be found. Sometimes she’d wake and he’d already be gone. She misliked those mornings most.

But now was not one of those lonely awakenings. Sansa turned to look upon Jon’s face. He looked to still be asleep. _He is incredibly handsome,_ she mused. _He looks so much like Father, from his dark hair with its widows peak to his beard trimmed neatly over his strong jaw._ Yet his features held a softness Sansa could not recall in any Starks. _His lips are so full and his eyelashes so lush. His mother must have been a great beauty._ Her heart ached as she remembered his sorrow the night before when he revealed the fate that befell her.

She reached up to cup his cheek and ran her thumb tenderly over the scar below his eye. He sleepily grabbed her hand and kissed her palm.

“Is it morning already?” he groaned, his eyes still closed as his brow furled.

“It is,” Sansa affirmed with a slight smile. “Did you not sleep well?”

Jon chuckled softly and hugged her to his chest. Her lips brushed the hollow of his throat. “You know I only sleep well with you. I’ve not truly rested the last two moons. I suppose I’m still in need of some catch up.”

“Then go back to sleep,” she whispered into his neck.

Jon moaned, squeezing her snugly as his lips grazed her ear. “What I would give to never leave this bed.”

Sansa heart seemed to cease its beating. _He is your brother, not your lover. You can’t keep treating each other in such a way._ She knew this wasn’t healthy. _Gods, we are both so broken._

Jon must have sensed her sudden unease and cleared his throat. “And yet leave I must.” He kissed the top of her head and arose, taking all comfort and warmth with him. “I’ll see you at breakfast? I imagine Davos will try to turn our morning meal into an overdue council meeting.”

Sansa smiled at him. “Of course.” He shot her a grin and took his leave. Her stomach churned. She feared she’d retch up any food she tried to choke down.

 

Jon’s prediction proved accurate; Lord Seaworth took breaking their fast as an opportunity to discuss belated topics of importance. Sansa toyed with the blackened bacon on her plate only half listening.

“Thankfully, we still have the allegiance of the Knights of the Vale despite the loss of Littlefinger. Lord Royce even seemed relieved after hearing the news.”

“What news?” Jon inquired, his voice laden with anger. “Where has that snake slithered now?”

She looked up to find Davos’ eyes on her, taken aback. “Queen Sansa has not informed you? He—” He paused, waiting for her permission to continue. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She gave him a curt nod. “He followed the queen into the Godswood and became… aggressive with her. Your direwolf was there, so when he attacked her—”

“Attacked her?! Sansa, what happened? Are you alright? Why didn’t you tell me?” His warm brown eyes were full of concern as he seized her trembling hand.

Sansa felt herself shaking her head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Ghost was there.”

Jon didn’t budge, his worried stare enduring. He was circling his thumb on her skin. “We’ll speak further on this later, alright?”

She nodded, quickly diverting her gaze as she felt her eyes begin to sting. _He cares for me so deeply._ The realization hit her abruptly. _I haven’t been with anyone who cares for me like this since… Father died._ She had forgotten how it felt to not have to doubt the motives behind someone’s regard for her.

“Did he flee?”

“Erm, no, Your Grace,” the onion knight stammered. “He died.”

Jon paused. “Good.”

 

She didn’t cross paths with Jon again until supper with Bran and Meera. He had been inundated with conferences and duties all day, rectifying issues with the smallfolk, sending directives to bannermen at the various holdfasts, and yet again tempering tensions between the noblemen and the Freefolk. He looked moments away from slumping face first onto the table. Unsurprisingly, stimulating conversation would be her responsibility this evening.

“Are you excited for your father to be here soon, Lady Meera? This morning we had a rider inform us that his party was near, so I imagine he’ll be here early tomorrow.”

Meera gulped down her sip of wine. “I’m quite anxious over it, Your Grace. I haven’t seen him since my brother and I left in search of Bran.”

“And he knew of your journey’s purpose?”

“Oh, yes. After Jojen told him of his visions, he was the one who knew the boy we sought was Ned—Lord Stark’s son.”

Sansa nodded. “Our fathers were very good friends. When my father first recognized we needed to flee King’s Landing, his original plan was to send Arya and myself ahead with Jory Cassel to your father’s castle in the Neck. He knew it was a place the Lannisters wouldn’t initially think to look and with one of the only lords he trusted in earnest.”

Meera smiled solemnly. “The only time I ever saw my father weep was when Jojen told him about the vision he had of your father’s execution before the Sept of Baelor.”

Sansa swallowed. She remembered how helpless she felt, fighting in vain against the clutches of Meryn Trant as Ilyn Payne’s greatsword met her father’s neck. Her hands were shaking in her lap when she felt a warm calloused hand cover them.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine, my lady. Don’t think on it. Though, it has been quite a day and I’m afraid I must retire. I look forward to meeting your lord father on the morrow.”

She arose gracefully from her chair and exited the hall as she heard Jon excuse himself to follow. _Must he always be so bloody considerate?_

He caught up with her and wordlessly interlaced his fingers with hers.

“Are you alright?” he asked as they reached her door. After some deliberation, she had moved into her lady mother’s room while Jon settled into the lord’s chambers.

Sansa sighed. “It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes. I hate being reminded of that day. It was the most traumatic moment of my life, if you can believe that. It was the moment I realized the world I thought I lived and the world we truly live in were not one. The former was a farce, only a fantastical song. I was such a stupid little fool.”

“Hey,” he breathed, pulling her to him. She felt his hand cradling her head as she leaned heavily into his shoulder. The leather of his jerkin felt wet against her face, perplexing her. _Oh._ It was only then she realized she was crying.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped, pulling away and wiping at her face.

“Don’t be. You were a child. We both thought the world a different place then.”

She felt herself nod and started to turn away.

“But I do want to discuss what transpired with Littlefinger.” She knew this was inevitable. “Sansa, what happened?”

She led him into her chambers and shut the door. She sat by the fire and he followed suit.

“He stalked after me into the Godswood, as he was prone to do. He sought to confront me.”

“Confront you? Over what?”

“Over what he felt he was owed for bringing us the Knights of the Vale and our victory. Over what was keeping me from relenting and giving into my duty. Giving into him and what he _deserved._ ”

Jon stayed silent, but she saw his jaw clench in the firelight.

“He grew even bolder in your absence. I admonished him, reiterating that his act was a payment to me after selling me to the Boltons and using me as a pawn in his schemes for so long, but he wouldn’t hear any of it. He was obsessed with his own theory as to how I could ever resist him.”

“And what was that?”

“He was convinced that… that there was someone else. As if loving another could be the only feasible reason for my lack of wanting him.” She laughed coldly, but Jon’s face remained hard as stone.

“Is there someone?”

“Jon, I think you would have noticed if I’d taken a lover.”

He was unamused. “But is there someone you… care for? In that way?”

She opened her mouth to answer but faltered. His face softened.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “That is not my business.”

“No, Jon, it’s fine,” she said, relieved. “His obsession with me was simply a vestige of his lifelong obsession with my mother. He never forgave her for choosing our uncle Brandon over him, then Father after his death. He resented—” Her heart began to race. “He resented my relationship with you. As far as he was concerned, he was losing his beloved Tully to an unworthy Stark all over again. He was maddened by it.”

Jon’s jaw had resumed its clench. “What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?”

Sansa shook her head. “Not seriously. He didn’t fully have a chance to. Like I said, Ghost was there.”

Jon frowned. “Sansa…”

“He said foul things to me that don’t bear repeating and threw me against a tree. I’m fine, he’s dead, we don’t need to delve into it.”

Jon looked at her with dismay. He opened his mouth to speak but there was a hurried rapping at the door, followed by one of the servant’s voices. “Queen Sansa, Lord Howland Reed has arrived.”

 

Sansa and Jon entered Bran’s solar to a palpably emotional scene. Lady Meera was in her father’s arms, her face puffy and red. He had apparently just quelled her sobbing.

“Jojen knew the cost of his journey and he went anyway. We had all prepared for this. Hush now, my child.”

Lord Howland Reed released his daughter and stood to face Jon and Sansa. He was not quite as tall as their father had been and his hair was a golden brown, but he had kind eyes and a calm demeanor just as her father had. Lord Stark called few men true friends, so it was no surprise to Sansa that Lord Howland seemed a man of a like temperament.

Sansa began with her courtesies. “Lord Reed, we are so pleased to welcome you to Winterfell. We know you were a loyal friend—”

“Jon Snow,” he rasped wondrously, disregarding Sansa entirely. “By the gods, you look just like her.”

The crannogman walked to Jon and put his hands on his shoulders, continuing to marvel at the King in the North. Sansa was perplexed by his familiarity and Jon’s ostensible neutrality toward it. “I was always relieved you did. Had you taken after your father’s line it wouldn’t have been long before the realm pieced it all together.”

_What is he on about? Jon looks just like their father. And Lord Reed and Father were of an age; he couldn’t already be senile, could he?_

“My lord,” started Jon, his voice surprisingly hoarse.

“Bran tells me you and I have much to discuss. I kept my promise to Ned just as he kept his to Lyanna all these years. Now that you know the truth you deserve to hear the whole of it.”

 _Lyanna? Aunt Lyanna?_ Sansa’s head began to spin.

“Meera and I shall leave you to it,” said Bran. Meera wiped her eyes and nodded, wheeling Bran towards his chambers. 

Lord Reed walked to the chairs before the fire and gestured to the other empty seat. Sansa began to back away, but Jon, who had been still as a statue thus far, reached for her hand and tugged her to him. His eyes found hers, beseeching. _Stay._

The accommodations in Bran’s solar were minimal compared to those in the lord’s chambers. Sansa stood beside Jon’s chair as she tried to comprehend what was being said while willing herself not to faint.

“I suppose I’ll start from the beginning if it would please you.”

Jon nodded, his hand finding hers once again.

“As you know, Lyanna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, then disappeared with Rhaegar, a prince already married with heirs, and the realm fell into chaos.”

“He kidnapped her and raped her,” Sansa said bitterly, albeit without much forethought. She looked to Jon and saw a man devastated.

“So it appeared. Your grandfather Rickard and uncle Brandon went to King’s Landing to confront the Targaryens. Ever the Starks, believing they would deal with men who held a similar code of honor. Aerys killed them for his own amusement, it seemed. Quite gruesomely.”

Sansa had heard the stories. Her father never spoke of it, but Joffrey had been sure to delight her with the specifics. Her stomach roiled. _You must be strong for Jon._

“And all at once we were at war. The North sought to avenge the murder of their warden and his heir, the South rose up with Dorne, affronted by Rhaegar’s apparent dismissal of Princess Elia, and the East rallied behind the Lord Arryn and his support for Robert’s Rebellion. In truth, Robert had no want for the throne. All he desired was Lyanna. He was a man blinded by passion. I often wonder how different things would have been if he knew Lyanna never felt the same.”

“She didn’t?” Sansa was confused. “I always heard Robert was glorious warrior in his day. Father said he was every maiden’s dream.” Sansa never knew her father to exaggerate, though she often wondered how someone so strong and fine could have grown into the gluttonous oaf she’d known King Robert to be.

Howland chortled. “That may have been true, but Lyanna was not every maiden. She saw Robert for what he was and knew what kind of husband he’d be. She told Ned on more than one occasion that she had no wish to be Robert’s wife.”

His smile faded. “If only then we had known the truth. So much ruin could have been avoided. Alas, I try not to dwell on such musings.”

“What truth?” Sansa inquired, again unthinkingly. She precipitously felt she was intruding on this intimate conversation.

Lord Reed sighed. “Lyanna was in love with Rhaegar. Madly so. Well, as in love as one could be at six and ten. She told Ned at the end she had thought her life a song.”

That shocked Sansa. Father always spoke of Lyanna as though Arya was her reincarnation. Nevertheless, he had said she was a lady and a beauty. _Could a girl so fierce still think her life a song?_

“She loved him?” Jon rasped, the first time he’d spoken since they sat down.

“Aye, although to this day I cannot say if his love was for her or his prophecy. Still, he was undeniably infatuated with her and had no qualms with every man in the Seven Kingdoms knowing it.”

Sansa remembered the stories of the Tourney at Harrenhal where Rhaegar crowned Lyanna the queen of love and beauty for all to see, passing over his royal wife. She had always imagined Lyanna to have been mortified by his act, as Father always said the crowd had been. Now she wondered if instead that was the first verse of her song.

“His prophecy?” Jon asked intently. Howland nodded.

“Elia Martell was a frail woman. She was bedridden for a year and a half after giving birth to Rhaenys and nearly died birthing Aegon. All the maesters agreed she could bear no more children. For all of his talk of deposing Aerys due to his insanity, Rhaegar nearly drove himself mad over his need to fulfill the prophecy: the dragon has three heads. He believed he had to have a third child and that you, either the three of you together or just one of you, would be the prince that was promised.”

Jon’s face had gone ashen and his hand was trembling in hers. “The… the Red Woman…” he stuttered.

Howland gave Jon a knowing look. “This is not the first time someone has spoken to you about fulfilling the prophecy, I take it.”

Jon shook his head. He looked as ill as Sansa felt.

 _He had to have a third child… you… the prince that was promised._ Sansa felt her knees knock together. She tried to stay upright as Jon held tight to her clammy hand.

“Lyanna knew Robert’s love for her would never match his hatred for Targaryens. You would never be safe if he knew who you were. Ned knew the best way to protect you was to claim you as his own.” Howland chucked, again the only person able to find levity in the situation. “That’s why I’m so grateful you took after your mother. It would have been hard to explain why the bastard of Eddard Stark had silver hair and violet eyes. And yet, knowing what I know, for all your dark Stark features I do see Rhaegar’s solemn gentle face in yours.”

It was the last thing Sansa heard before the world went black.


	7. Jon

“Sansa!”

Jon managed to keep his grip on her hand, hauling her toward him so her could catch her in his arms.

Lord Howland was on his feet. “Here, let me fetch help—Meera!”

His daughter exited Bran’s chambers and rushed to Jon’s side. “Did she faint?! I’ll get her a cool cloth.”

Jon stared at Sansa’s pale face, cradling her in his arms. _You could have at least warned her, you selfish fool. She could have fallen into the fire or hit her head on the hearth!_

Meera knelt at his side and began dabbing a damp cloth at Sansa’s brow. She attempted to call her back to consciousness. “My Queen? Are you alright?”

Sansa’s sapphire eyes fluttered open and he finally remembered how to breathe. “Jon? Jon, what happened? How did…” she looked to Howland. “Oh. Oh, Jon. I’m sorry. I, I just—”

“Hush, Sansa, everything is alright, I’ve got you.”

He watched her eyes dart around the room, looking upon each face staring at her. He needed to get her out of here.

“Can you stand? Let me escort you back to your chambers so you can rest.”

He lifted her to her feet but her legs quickly gave our beneath her. “Don’t worry,” he whispered in her ear as he hoisted her into his arms.

Howland opened the door for them. “Lord Reed, thank you. We’ll speak more on the morrow.”

As he carried her down the hall, Sansa rested her head against his shoulder. _She’s so light, he realized. Has she even been eating? I take nearly all of my meals with her. I should notice._

“I’m so embarrassed,” she lamented.

“Don’t be. I should have warned you of what news he might be bringing. I’m sorry.”

She nodded against him as they approached her door. He managed to open it without putting her down and closed it with his foot behind them. As he laid her on the bed he thought of their morning here so few hours ago. _Everything will be different now,_ he thought mournfully as he knelt on the rug at her bedside.

“So, you knew?”

Jon swallowed. “Bran told me of a vision he had of Father and Aunt Lyanna at the Tower of Joy. She died birthing a babe and made him promise to protect it with her dying breath. The only living person who could confirm the details was Howland Reed.”

Sansa nodded. “I can’t believe you aren’t Father’s son,” she said, staring blankly at the canopy, seemingly in still in shock.

Jon first heard Bran’s retelling of his vision half a moon ago. He had gone over what it meant in the time since at least a thousand times. Yet, for some reason, hearing Sansa say it aloud here and now hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt his chest constrict as he began heaving sobs.

“Oh, Jon!” Sansa cried, quickly sitting up and pulling him to her. He hugged around her waist and buried his face against her stomach. He felt her fingers run through his hair as her other hand rubbed his back.

“Jon, oh, Jon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—You are Father’s son. You always will be. He raised you into the man you are. The finest man I’ve ever known. You have all of his honor and bravery and gentleness and strength. You are more a Stark than any of us.”

Her sweet words just made him want to cry harder. “I’m not, though. I’m no Stark. I’m not even a Snow. I’m just a southron bastard with the Mad King’s blood coursing through my veins. How long until I go mad, Sansa? Were my brothers right to try and bring about my end? I can be no King in the North. I’m just a Targaryen bastard of the South.”

“Jon Snow, how can you even think such folly? You are the beloved son of Lyanna Stark and everything to me. You embody the North and deserve to be its King. This doesn’t need to change anything.”

Jon shook his head in her lap. “We can’t keep this a secret forever. If anyone else should find out and tell the northern lords before we have a chance to, it could jeopardize both of us. We have to tell them and I have to step aside.”

“You will not step aside. You heard Bran yesterday. He will not stay here. And you know the lords will never respect me alone. Please, Jon, enough with the foolishness. I need you.”

He looked up at her then, her red locks a curtain around him. Her blue eyes were shimmering and her cheeks were flushed with pink. He was relieved the color had returned to her face, but could tell her cheeks were aflame with emotion as well. _Enough with the foolishness._

“You don’t need me,” he said, sitting up and wiping at his eyes. “Look at me. I’m a bloody groveling mess. I’m the one who needs you.”

She smiled and bought a hand to his cheek to help him wipe away his tears. “We need each other. We’ve gone ‘round on this before. You know we are better together. I love you, Jon.”

He held her hand against his face, stroking it with his thumb. “Even though I am not your brother? You don’t love me any less?”

She laughed. “Jon,” she started as he squeezed her hand. “I think… I think now—” Her rosy cheeks now burned red and he searched her face desperately.

“Now what, Sansa? Tell me,” he implored, his heart pounding. He kissed her wrist and lowered his voice. “Sansa, tell me.”

She inhaled deeply with the ghost of a shudder. “I… I think now I love you more.”

“Sansa,” he breathed, staring at her. He bought a hand to her waist and started to lean toward her.

“Now,” she said brusquely, placing a palm flat on his chest. “Will you help me unlace my bodice? This gown would be dreadfully uncomfortable to try to sleep in.”

She angled herself away from him and his heart sank, fearing he misread everything. His hands shook as he slowly untied the top of her dress and loosened the lacing down her back. She began to pull it down and he moved quickly to look away, not wanting to leer at her like the lusting bastard she must think him to be.

“No,” she said softly as she grabbed his arm. “I want you to see.”

He wracked his brain for how he must be misinterpreting her words when she brought her gown to her hips and swept her hair over her shoulder, baring her back to him completely.

“Sansa.” Her name was stuck in his throat. Her back, her beautiful alabaster skin, was littered with the scars of cuts, lashings, and burns.

He wordlessly began to trace the gashes and lines marring her skin with his fingertips, down her spine and across her shoulder blades. His chest burned in anger. “He did all this?”

“Some were from Joffrey, but yes, most are from Ramsay. He liked it when I bled. He hurt me everywhere, all over my body. Everywhere but my face. He and Joffrey both said they wanted to keep my face pretty.”

She turned to him then, one arm covering her breasts. He saw the marks across her stomach and grazed them with his palm.

“You’re still pretty everywhere, Sansa. You’re beautiful. Nothing will ever change that. All any of these,” he gestured, tracing a line with his thumb, “show is that you’re strong. You are lovely in every way imaginable, Sansa.”

He saw tears well in her eyes. “You know what Littlefinger said to me? His last words to me that day in the Godswood? He told me that no man could ever want me. That I was too damaged. That I was _ruined._ He told me I should be grateful he desired me and marrying him was the only way I would ever know what it was like to be loved.”

Jon shook his head in incredulity. “He was mad. And a liar. Sansa, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Every inch of you is gorgeous.” He inhaled sharply. “Every time I look at you I have to remind myself you’re not a dream.”

She bit her plump pink lip and ran her thumb along his jaw. He slid his palm on her stomach around her hip and brought the other over her hand on his face. He dipped his head and she ran her thumb across his lips. He kissed it slowly. He moved his lips to her palm and then her wrist as she snaked her fingers into his hair.

She brought the arm covering her breasts to her side and he saw her chest heave as she breathed deeply. Her breasts were small yet supple, and he yearned to cup them in his hands and stroke her pert rosy nipples. He kept his eyes focused on hers, however, reveling in the intimacy of this moment.

He leaned in to bring his face next to hers and kissed her cheek, her jaw, and then the corner of her mouth. He pulled back to look into her eyes for permission to continue. A hand still in his hair, she brought the other to his jaw and pulled him toward her once more.

Their kiss was soft and light. Were it not so slow, under different circumstances it could even seem chaste. He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Jon,” she whispered, her voice breathy. “Will you show me?” His eyes searched hers as she ran her fingers along his beard. “Will you show me what it’s like to be loved?”

Jon’s heart burst in his chest. “Always,” he replied without hesitation as he brought his mouth to hers. Her lips parted and his tongue quickly found hers. _Gods, she tastes so sweet._

He couldn’t suppress the moan that escaped him as he felt her kiss increase in fervor. She tugged at his jerkin and started pulling at the lacing at his chest. He broke away from her to pull it off. His tunic and boots swiftly followed. She pushed the dress and shift still at her hips down and onto the floor as she scooted farther back on the bed in only her smallclothes and stockings.

 _By all the gods, what a sight._ He hurriedly climbed over to her, anxious to resume tasting her lips once more, but she stopped him. Her hands ran down his chest and her azure eyes were once again filled with tears.

Just as he hadn’t seen hers until moments earlier, she’d never seen his scars before. She knew what had happened, knew they must be there, but the look upon her face was one of heartbreak. He leaned back on his heels and winced his eyes shut, his face hot with shame.

He felt her lips press against the scars on his stomach, slowly moving upwards to kiss each place stabbed by a knife. Her arms were around his torso, holding him, as she kissed the final scar over his heart.

He wrapped his arms around her. “Sansa,” he started, but lost his words as her kisses resumed. She kissed his shoulder, collarbone, sternum, and neck. When her lips reached his ear he felt like weeping. “You were brought back to be with me.”

Jon knew truer words had never been spoken. _Fuck all the prophecies._ He knew she was what he was meant for.

He crashed his lips into hers and kissed her with a passion he’d never before known. He retained enough composure to lower her back down on the bed gently, but he knew he was soon to be a man lost.

He kissed her chin, her jaw, her cheek. When he moved his mouth to her neck he felt her hands all over him—his hair, his back, his arms. This was better than anything he ever dreamed. And he dreamed about this _often._

Slowly, his mouth made its way down to her chest. He kissed the tops of her breasts before looking back to her face to make sure she was still comfortable, but the way she was biting her lip and running her fingernails along his skin was all the assurance he needed. He took one of her nipples in his mouth and stroked the other with his finger and thumb.

She gasped raggedly as his tongue swirled in circles around her nipple before he gave it a careful bite and suckled it _hard._ He felt her hips buck beneath him as she moaned. More blood rushed to his cock with every sound she made. He moved to give her other breast equal attention as she continued to squirm. He was already an addict for her moans. He had to hear more.

He gripped her hips as he kissed his way down her stomach, stopping when he reached her smallclothes to once again look upon her face.

She was watching him intently, her breath a pant. He could tell she was more nervous than before. He resumed his kissing but didn’t break eye contact. He kissed down, over the cloth, and planted a slow, wet kiss at the apex of her cunt. She gasped. He turned his head to the side and kissed her thigh, slowly kissing down her leg as he pulled her stocking off. He quickly did the same to her other thigh, reveling in how silky her legs felt to him. Once her second stocking was off, he kissed back up her leg to her thighs once more. He kissed them slowly and sensually, slowly lifting her knees up off of the mattress. He slid his hands up to the waistband of the last garment separating her from him.

“Can we take these off?” he asked huskily. Sansa nodded and watched with wide eyes as he pulled at the strings before guiding the last of her underthings off of her. He crawled back up to her and kissed her tenderly. He felt her hands reach for the lacing of his breeches.

“Not yet,” he whispered against her lips. He slid down her body once more, leaving a quick trail of kisses in his wake. He felt Sansa’s stomach suck in when he kissed the strawberry thatch of pubic hair covering her mound. He continued lower, once again lifting up her knees, this time to guide them over his shoulders. When his mouth found her slit, he gripped her hips in anticipation as he began to run his tongue up and down her, opening her to him.

“Oh!” she cried, her hands finding his hair. She was already so wet.

“Gods, you taste so good,” he groaned, savoring her nectar. “Better than I ever imagined.”

“You’ve… imagined this?” she asked between breaths.

He nodded, his lips grazing her folds. “Imagined, dreamed, prayed… fantasized.”

He felt her shiver. “For… for how long?”

Jon paused. _Dare I be so honest?_ He promptly recognized he didn’t have the mental faculty to compose a lie when his head was between her thighs.

“Since your first night at Castle Black.”

She let out a sensual gasp as she tugged at his hair to push his mouth firmly against her once more.

He groaned in response, sinking his fingertips into her hips hard enough to bruise. He lapped at her, dipping his tongue into her opening as he circled her nub with his thumb. He gave her a long lick upward, finding her bud and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, soft at first, then harder.

“Jon… Oh, mmm—”

He slid his thumb up to the crest of her mound to lift her hood and expose her pearl fully. He sucked at her before pressing his tongue flat against it and working it with a grind.

“Oh my gods. Jon. Jon!” Her hips began to buck sharply so he used his free arm to anchor her to the bed.

“Jon, oh gods, I’m going to—I’m… oh!”

“Good,” he rasped against her. “Come for me. I want you to come for me.”

He resumed pressing his tongue forcefully against her nub as he moved his hand from her mound to between her legs. He rubbed her opening before slowly sliding in one finger, then a second.

Her grip on his hair tightened as her heard her gasps quicken. He slid his fingers in and out in rhythm with his tongue’s ministrations.

Her thighs clamped against his ears and her bucking hips became frenzied. He crooked his fingers upward inside her to move them in a “come hither” motion as he kept the rhythm of his fingers and tongue consistent.

“Oh! Oh, Jon! Oh my gods, oh my gods, oh mmm—!”

Her walls clenched around his fingers and her wetness soaked his beard. He worked her though her climax until her arms and legs fell limp around him. He wiped his face on his arm as he kissed his way back up her body, stopping to give both nipples a tender peck.

When he reached her mouth she kissed him back fervidly and it drove him wild to know she could taste herself on him. He pulled away and brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked her juices off them, never taking his eyes off hers.

“You taste like the sweetest honey.” He lowered his thumb back down to her slit and lightly rubbed it along her folds. He knew he was becoming a man crazed, but she was divine. He bought his thumb to her lips and began to drag it across them when she opened her mouth and suckled.

Jon felt his cock jerk painfully and he thought for a moment he would spend in his smallclothes. His mouth crashed into hers hungrily and he hastily began pulling at the strings at his waistband.

Sansa seemed anxious to help, sliding down every inch of fabric she could reach to bare him to her.

When he’d managed to kick the last bit of his clothing off the bed, he and Sansa seemed to realize in unison that they were finally bare together. Their caresses turned from frantic to careful, their kisses from wild to tender.

Jon pressed his forehead to hers. “I love you. Sansa, I love you.”

She brought her hands to his face and kissed him amorously. “I love you too, Jon.”

He was content to stay like this, locked in this loving embrace with his lips fused to hers. He wanted her to control how things happened next since he knew what her only other experiences had been. He couldn’t claim to be entirely selfless in his patience, however. He knew he needed this moment of calm if he hoped to last once he was inside her.

He felt her finger tips rake down his torso until her hands found his cock. She ran a hand up and down his length, wrapping her fingers about him. Thankfully, she locked her legs around him after only a couple strokes as she guided him to her entrance.

His hand replaced hers as he rubbed the head of his cock against her slit, up and down and taking time to circle the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of her cunt.

“Jon, don’t tease me,” Sansa whined.

He laughed, pushing his head at her opening ever so slightly before rubbing it up and down her once more.

“Jon, please.” Her fingernails scratched at his back as her teeth grazed his earlobe. “Jon, I _need_ you.”

Jon couldn’t hold out any longer. He lined himself up with her and slowly glided into her. Her tight slick heat felt incredible. She gasped into his ear as their hips met. He kissed her neck before moving his forehead to hers, shuddering. She kissed him slowly as she moved her hips in a grind against his. He accepted her encouragement and began to move inside her in deep, slow strokes.

“Ah, oh, Jon,” she moaned against his lips. “This is even better than I imagined as well.”

“Than _you_ imagined?”

She nodded with a shy smile. “You aren’t the only one who dreamed of being together.”

He moaned against her mouth and cupped her face as he began to increase his pace. He was dangerously close to the point of no return.

“Do you want to be on top?” he whispered. He felt her tense.

“Um, I… I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.”

“We don’t have to. But if you want to try, I can guide your hips with my hands and you can move however feels the best for you.”

She nodded. “Okay,” she breathed.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back. He kissed her deeply before guiding her upright and placing his hands on her hips.

He lifted her up his length and lowered her back down, then up again, trying to make her motions as fluid as possible.

She tilted her head back, her hands kneading together her breasts. “Oh, Jon.”

“You are so beautiful.” His voice was breathy and full of awe. “You are a goddess.”

As her movements became more independent he moved a thumb down her mound and began circling her nub.

“Ah, Jon, oh!”

She began to ride him in earnest and he lifted his hips to meet her each time she bore down on him, her perfect teats bouncing each time they collided.

Her hand replaced his rubbing at the top of her cunt. He’d never seen a more erotic scene in his life. He sat up quickly, running his fingers through her hair and pulling her by the back of the head into him so his mouth could meet hers. Her frantic gallop slowed into a steady grind. She removed her hand from between them as his body could now rub upon her pearl with precision.

Her forehead was against his, her breasts pressed to his chest, and their pelvises aligned to give her the delightful friction he knew she craved. He’d never felt so close to anyone.

“I love you,” he confessed again, not meaning to say it aloud. “Gods, Sansa, how I love you.”

He saw her open her mouth to speak but she only emitted silent cries as she dug her nails into his back.

“I… I…”

He felt her seize around him and that was all he could take. He pulsed his seed into her, all thoughts leaving his head. He fell backward onto the pillow, taking her with him and holding her tight to his chest. They lay together wordlessly as their heavy breathing tempered.

“Jon. Oh, Jon,” she mumbled, kissing his chest. “I’ve never… felt that before. I never knew it could feel like this.”

He brought her lips to his and kissed her lovingly. “It will only get better.”

He slipped himself out of her and was promptly brought back to reality as he recollected spending inside of her. _What if you just made a babe, you fool? Typical bastard, begetting more bastards._

They lay there silently, running gentle fingertips over each other's skin.

“You should marry me,” Sansa said after a while, far too casually.

“What?!” He was certain he misheard her.

“When we tell the northern lords about your true parentage, we should also announce our betrothal. That way, your loyalty to the North can’t be questioned and it secures our family line. Our children would be Starks. And neither of us will be obligated to use marriage as a bargaining chip to for alliances in the wars to come. We can make our life here, together.”

_Our children would be Starks._

She lifted her head from his chest to look at his face. Her mouth was swollen from kisses and her eyes glittered a deep blue. “Unless that’s not what you want. I didn’t mean to presume, or pressure you right after… right after we—”

He pressed his lips to hers to stop her rambling. “Sansa, that’s all I could ever want. All I’ve ever dreamed of. But I don’t deserve you. I’m still just a bastard. Think what you’re giving up by marrying me.”

“And what would that be? An uncertain future, married off to some stranger and having to live out my days gods know where? Seeing our family name die out? Having to watch you take a wife and grow to love her, now that I know what loving you is like? Jon, I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t.”

He kissed the tears threatening to escape the corners of her eyes before he brought his lips back to hers. “Sansa, I could never love another. I could never be with another. I fear I’m yours now, forever, whether you want me or not.” _Enough with the foolishness._

“You’re everything I want,” she whispered, her hands stroking his face. He held her to him and flipped her on her back so he was atop her. She wrapped her legs around him as he kissed her neck.

“I want to make love to you, and only you, for the rest of my days,” he breathed hotly against her ear. Her nails raked his shoulders.

“Then make love to me, Jon. Make love to me and don’t ever stop.”

He was powerless to do anything but oblige her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my babies, we've reached the end of my very first work of fan fiction. Thank you so much for your support from day one. I've never written anything like this before (including all the belated smut we finally got to in this final chapter!) and really thrived on your comments. PLEASE don't hesitate to provide feedback on this chapter, how the story concluded, and how you feel about the story overall. Thank you!!!
> 
> ~ Stepha


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